The Dance
by Isolde Necrophilia
Summary: "You killed my son, and I killed your family. All we have left is each other, eh?" - Commander Maro/Dragonborn, post-Dark Brotherhood storyline.


I stared blankly as I watched the sanctuary burn. I stared blankly as my family was pelted by arrows and steel. I stared blankly as the smoke kissed Oblivion. My arms and legs moved as a heart might, without conscious command, for once more I was an orphan: half angry, and oh so very lonely. Astrid's voice served as feedback in my rigid mind; I heard her assure me that the sanctuary was the safest place in the world, that I was her sister, and, alas, I heard her sarcastic voice chasing me from the door one final time. _Listener. Do well,. . . Listener. _

It's in these moments that we rise far into the universe and see for the very first time our planet and all of the structures that we are otherwise blinded to; we watch as the butterfly bats its wings, stirs the water, and strikes a tsunami that devastates an entire hold. And I'm so, so very angry, but so very numb, and as I travel to Solitude to finish what I had begun, I question who is to blame for my family's death. Is it Astrid? Maro? The Dark Mother? Myself? Am I the butterfly, and if so, is the butterfly to be blamed?

I try to find reality in carnage, but despite the murders, the silence remains and I'm still hovering above my body. I'm half-dead. No one knows I'm half-dead. I twist the intestines of a man young enough to be my son for no other reason than a small bag of coin he's hidden in a hollow tree, but in his screams, there is no meaning, no purpose, and I'm still so very angry. I rest against his lifeless body, hold his head to my bosom. Can you hear my heartbeat, sir? Am I alive? I want to be whole again. Can you hear me?

Years pass. I devise a brilliant plan to rip each appendage from Commander Maro's body until there is nothing left but his skull, neck, and abdomen; not even his eyes nor tongue will remain, and I will not kill him. I will leave him alive, like a fly without wings, to exist as a mannequin on my nightstand. He will be my bard, my lullaby, my dream and friend. Yes, lovely, isn't it?

* * *

Elenwen is hosting another gaudy party, so naturally I invite myself after being assured Commander Maro has received an invitation and is straddled on a mare trotting in the Thalmor's direction. I arrive fashionably late and, after being greeted by the hostess herself, request aged red wine from the bartender. He apologizes and offers a simple explanation for its absence, but offers instead white wine, and I accept; I lift the goblet of gold to my lips and allow it to perish the drought of my throat.

Then I begin the hunt.

Commander Maro, manifesting a frown that practically extends beyond his jaw, appears to be discussing politics with a similar face behind the dancing bodies. I approach him. He sees me. I take my ivory skirt in my fists, raise it, and curtsy. "A dance, Commander?"

Like a gentleman, he bows, takes his gloved hand into mine and leads me to the bodies twisting like the smoke he ignited. He takes me by the waist, and I by his neck, and we adjust ourselves to the beat of the bard's lute. Our legs move very mechanically at first; he is wondering if I am real, for I must have died, and I am wondering nothing at all – just spinning, spinning, spinning.

The bard stops, but we don't let go. He plays a different song and the song is accompanied by a drum. Our feet scatter faster, we hang closer, and I dip my head back, allowing my crimped tresses to tingle against his fingers. I'm soaring in this moment, I can feel the other half of me that has been observing from up above, but then I'm falling, falling, and my stomach quenches – but as I'm about to hit the ground, my digits gather into his hair, and hold onto him – and he swoops me horizontally, throws me back into the air, and I _laugh_. I'm weightless, so very weightless.

In the dancing and the wine, we find ourselves toppling over one another, removing bits of clothing; my skirt is thrown over my hips, my wrists pinned above my head, and he's inside of me. My heels dig into the skin of the bear below my arse, my toes curl, and I nuzzle into his neck, gasping, gasping. I'm heavy, so very heavy; he picks up my body, thrusts it against the wall, and has at me with as much intensity as an empty capsule can have. And as we climax, I take him on the mattress, grinding my hips onto his; my nails scratch his chest, leaving five parallel lines of red, and he quivers inside of me when, alas, he fills me entirely.

Then I collapse on him. The other part of me that had been floating somewhere just outside of Oblivion suddenly comes crashing like Icarus, right into me, right onto him, and I must weigh as much as a dozen mules. "I'm sorry," I whisper, cradling into his arm. "I'm so heavy in your arms."

He grunts. "Which one of us has a dagger?"

I smile and flatten my skirt. "Can the dead kill the dead?"

I twist onto my side; the sun is beginning to merge against the mountains, casting a glare over his faces, and now that the fog has dispersed I see every line on his face more clearly than ever. He looks more human than any human I've ever seen before; He's so frankly ugly, so disgusting, that I close my lips against his.

"You killed my son, and I killed your family. All we have left is each other, eh?"

He understands. I do, too. We're two writhing, wingless flies on a pile shit.

* * *

**A/N : **I blame _How to Destroy Angels'_ new album for this piece. Hope you enjoyed.

Review, por favor.

- I. N.


End file.
